


Postscript for the Airmen

by Fishwrites



Series: Airmen [2]
Category: James Bond - All Media Types, Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Established Relationship, Fluff, Flying, Historical Fantasy, M/M, Navy, Politics, Romance, Royalty, Treason, War, they are just very married
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-03-31 14:06:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3980902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fishwrites/pseuds/Fishwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James is one of the Royal Airmen's finest. Q is an engineer who designs the ships that made England rich on flight-ore. He's also the Queen's favourite ward, or so rumours go. </p><p>Ostensibly, the Airmen weren't warships anymore since the war with Spain and France was officially over. But treason never sleeps. (In which James captains a flying ship and is almost a pirate for queen and country; Q is still afraid of flying - and really this is just another story between a besotted sailor and sweetheart; a ship and a lighthouse).</p><p>Pseudo-steampunk, with less steam and more tech; flying ships and gravity-defying architecture.</p><p>(This is 00q centric but the universe does involve Kingsman and characters play a role here. Kingsman centric plot is posted separately!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a historical mashup with a dash of Elizabethan piracy (and hate for the Spanish); Edwardian fashions; Victorian steampunk aesthetics (less steam though) and Georgian politics. In the background is the Great American Unrest as it were, where the English are keen to keep control of their American colonies because of the valuable Flight Ore there. 
> 
> Look I just wanted James in an awesome navy-esque uniform, flight boots and gloves. So sue me.

 

 _"The moment you doubt whether you can fly,_  
you cease forever to be able to do it."  
– J.M Barrie

:i:

> _Whitehall, London  
>  1810._

Walking on stone after so long in the sky was always jarring.

After a four-month voyage, it was as if someone had turned all his bones to steel – and James felt like an air-ship that had come too suddenly to ground, heavy and unwieldy.

There was no pulsing sway to the sky as there might have been on an ocean, but one was always aware of the yawn of space beneath his boots. On smaller ships, there was a constant risk of turbulence and stomach-pitching drops or turns. The _Skyfall_ was large enough to weather through most storms with calm dignity, especially with all the constant revisions and upgrades lavished on her. But as an unofficial pirate ship, she had to be small enough to outstrip the bloated merchant vessels and fast enough to waylay the Spanish cargo that crossed French and Italian airspace.

Right now she was docked in the airstrip that hung, suspended above the Thames. James could almost see her from the windows of the Palace, high as they were, could recognise her rose-gold tones and the stripes of her tail painted in the Bond family colours. Other than that she was hidden by the criss-crossing architecture of the city walkways and buildings that rose, yearning for the sky.

So tall and close were they at the heart of the city that one could scarcely see the ground, the lower-level streets dark and shadowed.

The _Skyfall_ was not the only ship home today: they had all been returning for almost a fortnight now, Britain’s great ships – the ones that bled the others dry of gold and silver, that watered Whitehall and fed the bellies of the marbled banks – now lay temporarily at rest, snoozing in their berths. They lined the Thames like great monsters, a rare sight to be all home at once. In the houses nearest, people came out onto their balconies, pointing and chattering.

James could see the closest ship, a great military lady named the _Vauxhall_. It had sustained a great injury to her hull and it was swarming with workers, smaller air-ships and sailors flying and hovering about her looming skeleton as they conducted repairs.

Over the heads of the assembled crowd, James could see the clock-tower through one of the windows. He allowed himself a smile – which disappeared when he realised he had been stuck in this room for over two hours already. James had always detested any kind of formal ceremony – and although the Queen was also a lover of efficiency, the presentations were inevitably long and drawn out.

 _Politics._ Soldiers had no use for them. Sailor and Airmen even less so – what did they care for things bound by land?

James supposed it did good to show off the successes of these trips, but it was currently doing _his_ sanity no good at all. After so long beneath the vast dome of the sky, even the vaulted ceilings of the great hall was too close to bear, and the constant hum of conversation an irritating vibration beneath his skin.

“Captain James Bond of the _Skyfall_ ,” came the page’s voice. James had to stop himself from sighing out loud with relief. Taking the time to down the rest of his drink in one long gulp, he pushed away from the pillar he had been half-hiding behind. The courtiers parted for him, until he was in a wide envelope of space in front of the throne. _Skyfall_ ’s caskets had been brought forward already, sitting closed in two tidy rows.

“When did your ship get in, Captain?” said the Queen. She did not raise her voice, but it carried along the marble floor; comfortable and assured in her power.

James didn’t bother bowing (he could hear the whispers already), but he did incline his head.

“Just past noon, ma’am.”

More whispers. It was amazing how no one seemed to remember this was exactly how he was the last time he made an appearance too; they were equally scandalised by his impropriety every single time. James might once have made an effort, but it was more amusing now to let it run. He let his eyes scan the crowd, looking, searching, and not finding.

“And I suppose you were too busy to change, before your audience?”

James shrugged, palms up. It was true he hadn’t really bothered to get changed beyond switching the old shirt for new and shrugging on his captain’s jacket. The thing never saw the light of day in the air – far too stiff about the collar to be comfortable, and white was hardly practical every day. But he wore it now, complete with singed sleeves and dirty flight boots, strapped up to his knees, holsters in plain view: two on each thigh, one under each arm and one looping down his spine. It was a heavy coat, made for occasions like this rather than flight-use, heavy fabric, high collar and lapels edged with gold thread which wound past down to twist into an insignia which represented his rank and loyalties.

“I’m afraid there was a lot of cargo to unload,” he said, smirking. He kicked one of the caskets with his right heel, “This is just what we could be bothered carrying up here.”

The Queen looked down her nose at him, but her lip twitched upwards.

“Indeed,” she said, “And what did you deem worthy of your efforts?”

“In ascending or descending order of interest?”

“Just get on with it, Captain.”

James raised one eyebrow.

“Very well, we’ll start with the most boring.”

Unlocking the closest two caskets, James flipped open their lids with heavy thuds of metal and wood as the locking mechanism drew back and the lid hit the back of the casket.

“Bullion from the Spaniards,” he said to a wave of applause. “There’s another dozen of these downstairs awaiting your treasury.”

James straightened, and was about to unlock the next two caskets when he caught a familiar figure near the throne. It distracted him for a full breath as the figure shifted into a shaft of sunlight, then into shadow again – but James could recognise that profile in the pitch dark, that head of hair, pointed nose and narrow shoulders.

Q caught his eye and raised both eyebrows. Then he turned, shifting so he was only partially visible in the crowd, just the bare slope of his jaw and neck. There was a smile at the corner of those lips, like an enticing shadow on a cloudless day.

James found his next exhale caught somewhere between his lungs and his heart.

“Captain?”

Reluctantly, he turned his attention back to the Queen and the assembled courtiers. James unlocked the next rest of the caskets with very little flourish, only wanting to be done and finished. There were valuable artisan crafts: jewellery and egg-sized diamonds, fine-bone china and paper-thin wooden instruments feathered with gold leaf and jade. There were many new weapons (the Queen’s favourite), strange contraptions and untasted fruits that barely survived the voyage. There were blatantly stolen crowns and royal markers from far-off Kings, a book entirely plated with gold so heavy that it took two men to lift.

And privately, there would be stolen schematics for war ships, guns, canons and other creatures of war. Some James would give to the Queen; most he would give directly to Q.

The _Skyfall_ was a wrathful ship, and destroyed as much as she stole. But she was as good a thief as she was a killer, and always brought back more gold and precious things than her siblings. It was no small secret that she and her captain had the favour of the Queen.

“A good voyage then,” said the Queen when the last casket and its treasures had been presented to her.

“A long one,” said James pointedly.

The Queen laughed at this, two bursts of breath as she smiled with her teeth. She was still holding a ruby orb James stole somewhere on the return journey over Italy, turning it over and over in one hand. They had run into a French merchant ship and helpfully relieved it of its royal cargo. Her free hand was adorned with the rings of her office, and she waved it in a lazy, dismissive gesture.

“Very well, Captain.” she said, “You have done splendidly, as always. Your country and her treasury thank you. Now get out of my sight.”

This time, James did bow.

“Gladly,” he said, swiping a handful of gold from the closest casket before kicking it closed, “ _Ma’am_.”

He thought he might have heard someone laugh, soft and quiet like _hello_ after _goodbye_.

But when he scanned the room, Q was nowhere to be seen.

 

:i:

 

James’ plan had been to get out of court, dispose of all necessary paperwork and retrieve his Aston from its secure locker town on third level. Fly by his flat, get changed, obtain food and then visit Q (nightfall be damned).

As with all plans under his care, this one evaporated when he finally stepped onto the promenade outside Whitehall and found Alec there, the Aston resting against a lamppost. He was still in his flight gear, white jacket hanging off one shoulder as he inhaled a cigarette. He blew out a large plume of smoke when he spotted James, grinning through it like a shark.

“You know,” said James, “I’m seriously regretting giving you the spare keys.”

 “Been taking her out,” said Alec, patting rim of the Aston’s wing which was folded back upon itself while grounded. “Free drinks if you have this jacket on, bloody fantastic. How was her Majesty?”

“A bitch,” said James, lying one hand on the Aston’s glass dashboard and feeling the familiar presence of her sink into his skin. “When did you get back?”

“A week and a half ago,” said Alec, “Was done presenting before Rodriguez returned, thank the Lord. I don’t know why we trust that Spanish dog.”

“We don’t,” said James.

They grinned at each other for a long moment, then Alec pulled him in a tight hug, thumping James so hard on the back that he almost stumbled. Back to back flights and missions meant that it had been almost two years since they were last in London at the same time – or grounded anywhere simultaneously. James didn’t have many friends either; even in peace time, voyages were long. _Particularly_ in peace time.

“Been too long,” said Alec, finishing the last stub of his cigarette and throwing it beneath his boot.

“Yes,” said James, finally letting go.

“Drink, then?”

“If you think I’m leaving this – “

Alec snorted.

“God you haven’t changed at all. We can leave the Aston in the guardhouse, you fool. They won’t touch it. Then we can get pissed in a proper bar down on ground level with all that gold you’re carrying in your pocket.”

“Get your own fucking gold,” said James, without any real heat, “And I thought free drinks with the station? Or is that why you’ve been treading dirt so far down.”

It was hard not to stop grinning, and the ground was feeling less heavy and merely steady; a comforting stillness.

“Anyway. Nearly sundown,” said James, glancing at the clock-tower in the distance. When he looked back, he found that Alec had followed his gaze and was now giving James a very knowing stare. It was more of a leer, really.

“Put that grin away,” said James, after a pointed pause, “You look like a drooling dog.”

“This _dog_ brought _someone_ their flyer so they can go straight to shagging their – “

James punched him hard in the shoulder, and Alec laughed, uproarious. Several passers-by gave them curious looks, two girls riding flight-blades which only had the flight capabilities of a few meters, a few clerks clutching heavy satchels and papers. A gentleman sporting a truly enormous moustache and riding a monocycle whirred by, giving them both vaguely irritated looks.

“I hate those things,” said Alec, as they stared after the man, “What’s the point if you’re just staying on the ground? Might as well walk, if you ask me. Waste of gold.”

“He’s flaunting it,” said James, shrugging, “Clearly never has to leave top level. Might be one of the junior ministers.”

“Or a banker,” said Alec, narrowed eyed. He pulled out another cigarette and offered James the packet. James shook his head. Alec shrugged and lit his own with a small battered lighter hanging from a chain at his hip.

“Still a walking fire hazard,” said James, eyeing his friend up and down, counting the number of explosives tucked away. Alec snorted – then coughed as smoke went up the wrong way. James politely gave him time to hack up a lung.

“When did you stop?” he said, finally, “Is it the missus?”

James raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t you know it’s meant to be bad for your health?” he said, dryly, “And I wouldn’t let Q hear you say that.”

Alec mock shuddered.

“I _do_ value my life,” he said, “And yours. Which is why you should probably head off soon.”

“Need to swing by the _Skyfall_ ,” said James, “Some things to pick up. You brought the spare goggles?”

Reaching over the wing to flip open the compartment at the back of the Aston, Alec tossed James a pair of flight goggles. Technically no one was meant to fly so fast as to require goggles, not in this part of London – but neither Alec nor James were prone to follow speed limits. Their jackets and insignia were as good as a blanket immunity at any rate, if there happened to be a member of the Night Guard who didn’t recognise the Aston by now.

The Aston Martin had been modified so many times that James almost lost count; with the result that it ran a sleeker silhouette than originally intended, being such an old machine. It’s motors and engine saw the labour of Q’s loving hands and its wing blades had already been upgraded once this year, just before James left for the latest voyage.

It had originally been made to be a four-person flyer, with a much wider body. But James himself had modified it for speed and Q had tweaked it for agility with the result that it could easily outstrip any Night Guard or solo skater. One consequence was that it barely fitted two people.

But it wasn’t as if Alec was going to fall off the end.

“I’m driving,” he said.

“In your dreams,” said James, tossing the keys in the air and catching it again in his other hand. Pulling the goggles on, he vaulted over the wing and into the front of the Aston, slotting the key into the ignition. He lay one hand across the controls, savouring the feel of the machine purring into life, the vibration that ran through its chassis and the smooth metal exterior of her.

“Hello darling,” he said, running his hand across the arch of the wheel.

Alec was grumbling as he pulled himself behind James, the Aston rocking very slightly in the air with the extra weight.

“I’m guessing you’re not going to drop me off down third,” said Alec.

James tossed an incredulous look over his shoulder.

“You can bloody walk,” he said, then floored the accelerator.

They shot up and away from Whitehall with a roar of the engine, the Aston’s wings unfolding like a bird snapping against gravity. James leaned back, legs wide for balance, body automatically compensating for the familiar lurch as a few people shrieked at the sudden flight, a few shouting in alarm. Alec merely cackled with laughter as James flew them right over the promenade, delighting in the feel of a smaller flyer, the wind whipping his face as he took them above the spires of Parliament house. It was different, flying the Aston. James loved _Skyfall_ , but it was altogether a different thing. Here, there was barely anything between one’s boots and thin air – and it was exhilarating.

“You crazy _fuck_ ,” yelled Alec, as James narrowly avoided an on-coming tram carriage.

Really, they could have walked to the airstrip. It would have taken them less than half any hour to get to _Skyfall_. But what was the point of walking when one could fly? James pulled at the joystick to drop them sharply by five meters in order to avoid a rotund flyer coming in the opposite direction. It took a moment for him to realise he was flying in the wrong side and promptly swerved to take the Aston back to the left, leaning hard so that the wing sliced past a lamppost.

“I’ll have you know,” said Alec over the wind, “I didn’t run up a single speeding ticket. It’s all on you.”

“Lies,” James yelled back against the wind, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”

“Yes alright,” said Alec, “I did a few rounds. That’s why I flew your flyer instead of mine, so you can foot the bill.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” said James.

It was such a short flight that even with James’ blatant disregard for aviation law, no sirens sounded and no angry Guards came in pursuit. James slowed the Aston a little as they neared the docks, flying at mast-level so as to avoid the traffic near the streets. It was overwhelming, to be near so many familiar landmarks all at once, and he navigated the airstrip automatically, the Aston rumbling contentedly beneath his hands. They passed under the vast shadows of merchant ships, bulky and fat with cargo; the more familiar outline of warships that had been outfitted for peace time (that is to say, with more firearms), and finally the Skyfall. James didn’t bother taking the Aston down to street level, instead opting to land directly on deck, engaging the landing mechanisms with a hiss of gears as the Aston secured itself with barely a shudder, wings lowering in smooth, clockwork precision.

“There’s a spare flyer you can take if you are really that lazy,” said James, “Down in the hold. Just make sure you bring it back, for heaven’s sake.”

“Nah,” said Alec, “I’ll take the tube down. Some of us actually like the city, you know.” Skyfall was devoid of the usual crew, them having all been dismissed earlier. The deck had been washed clean, it was damp with water, reflecting the sunset. The light made all the ships look golden, shadows long and vast like souls too large to be contained in their metal shells. It was a beautiful sight

“Good old girl,” said Alec, “Hasn’t changed much either, has she?”

James didn’t answer, but unlocked the cabin doors. Alec followed him in. _Skyfall_ was small enough that the living quarters had narrow hallways and tightly packed stairwells. James took them two at a time, impatient as he went through all the locks that led to his quarters. Pushing open the heavy door, he crossed the room in three strides to the safe that was sunk into the body of the bed. Alec watched from the door, arms crossed across his chest as James turned the complex tumbler to unlock the safe. It hissed, the other layer peeling back to reveal another layer of locks that had to then be bypassed as well. Q had always had a way with locks and puzzles; had infused himself in the ship like he had done James’ thoughts and secrets.

Finally, he pulled out the drawer of the safe to reveal an already packed bag. Securing the cuff to his own wrist, James hoisted the heavy bag onto his shoulder with a grunt and pushed the drawer back into place with his foot. Obediently, the locking mechanisms began to slot back into place like a plant closing its petals for the night.

“All the good stuff, huh?” asked Alec, “Does the England know you have a mistress?”

“England would do well not to interfere,” said James.

Alec led the way back out, and by the time James (graciously) dropped him back to street level, the sun was dipping past the buildings, leaving only the faintest of slivers to drip across the pavement like spots of brandy clinging to glass.

“You’re coming out with me tomorrow,” said Alec, when James had kicked him off the Aston, “ _Tomorrow_ , James. I don’t have a month’s leave like you politicking pigs.”

James merely gave him the most loving of rude gestures and pulled the Aston sharply back into the air.

:i:

 

It was harder to pilot with a heavy bag on one side, but James had once flew half way across the country with a broken leg and a dislocated shoulder so it was only a matter of adjusting the flyer’s balance and fly at a constant angle.

One was meant to fly with lights on, after sunset – and James usually did, if only to keep the other fliers safe from shock when an Aston zoomed overhead or missed them by inches – but discretion meant flying quiet and in the shadows. He abandoned the wide, well trafficked airspace near Westminster and turned away from the Thames, hugging the long shadowed side of buildings as the lights came on in windows and drapes were drawn. The wind was cool against his bare skin, his un-gloved hands chilled against the metal of the gears as he flew steadily across central London.

It was an easy route to navigate: James had made it countless times in the past few years, and knew the silhouettes of all the buildings and landmarks; felt the pull of the clock-tower like a bird going home.

To be fair, the clock-tower itself was difficult to miss. It had survived three centuries of war lay in disuse for two more before its current occupant nursed it back to life, almost rebuilding the mechanisms inside back from scratch. Now the clock-face was clean of dust, and glowed with the soft-warmth of oil and gas lamps from within. It kept time too, quietly and without its old brass bells – but it was perhaps the most accurate clock in England.

And if one listened on a very still night, perhaps if they flew high enough, they would be able to hear the sound of a piano.

The clock tower was so old that it still possessed old fire-ladders, fragile with rust, which ran along the outside of the clock tower. A section had long since fallen away, leaving a gap between the bottom few floors and the top. The clock face spanned almost three full floors, the middle and widest looked in on Q’s workshop because it afford the most natural light. James approached the tower from its side, dropping a few meters in height so that he could dock at the small protruding landing balcony that used to service the maintenance crew. It was small, even for a private flier, with impractical but beautiful curved metal railings complete with rusted carvings of foliage, but James had landed enough times that it barely required any thought at all. He pulled the Aston up close, close enough that he could winch the left wing back and let the flier half bank, half drop bodily onto the metal balcony.

There was a slight scrape of metal against metal, but James was more preoccupied with the figure, backlit, in the doorway.

“It’s no wonder she needs so many touch ups, the way you treat her,” said Q, once the engine noise died down.

James pulled down his flight goggles, letting them hang about his neck. They probably left unattractive marks on his face, but the sight of Q leaning against the door-frame was worth it. James barely bothered to engage the landing locks before stepping out of the Aston, taking the one stride across the width of the balcony and pulling Q into a kiss.

Q smelt like skin-warmed metal, resin and paper; felt like worn-wood soaked in a day’s worth of sun. James wrapped his free arm around Q’s waist, pressed them close together with a groan, running his palm along the dip of Q’s back. Q arched into the embrace, pliant and welcoming, hands fisted the back of James’ jacket. Q tasted like the tea he must have been drinking when James arrived, bitter and fragrant.

It was like someone struck him over the head, time pull taut and snapping. Four months felt at once an eternity away and also barely a night.

Eventually Q started making protesting noises, pulling away.

“Your goggles are digging into my throat,” he explained, reaching up to undo the buckle of the strap.

James tried to steal another kiss but Q batted him away (and so received a kiss on his wrist instead).

“Never liked them,” said James, when Q finally pulled the goggles away. “Why aren’t you wearing a coat? You’ll freeze.”

It was a relatively still night, but still the air was cold where they were; the wind whipping at James’ jacket and sleeves. Q tilted his head, brow raised.

“Who knew you’d would be so late?” he said, and James found himself leaning in, wanting to drink the rounded vowels straight from those lips. Q let out a sharp exhale, the way he did when he was amused but wanting to make James work for a laugh.

“I was waylaid by Alec,” said James, “And had to go pick up presents.”

He hefted the bag on his shoulder, making the cuff rattle. Q’s smiled, fond and unrestrained without the scrutiny of other eyes.

“Forgiveness is not so easily bought, Captain. Tardiness is a sin.”

“It’s barely nightfall as it is,” said James, resting his forehead against Q’s. It was cold enough that their shared breaths was visible in the yellow light that spilled from the still-open door. “Is my discretion sufficient virtue to mitigate my sins?”

“Seeing as am not a man of the church,” said Q, voice barely above a whisper, “It would really depend upon the contents of your…package.”

“Is that so?”

Q gave him a disdainful look beneath his lashes, rather like a cat surveying a particularly unimpressive rat.

“I shall withhold judgement until such a time that proper evaluation might be conducted,” said Q. “Perhaps inside rather than out here. I _am_ getting rather cold.”

“You’re barefoot,” said James, “Ridiculous.”

“I was _reading_ ,” said Q, “Before being so rudely interrupted.”

“Another sin to atone for,” said James, and kissed Q upon the nose in apology.

“Mmhm,” said Q, smiling, “I wouldn’t worry about the state of your soul.”

“No,” said James, “But I do worry for the state of your feet.”

Huffing out anther amused breath, Q drew back to let them both inside.

“You mustn’t be too good a man,” he said over his shoulder, “Who else would keep me company if you went to heaven?”

James pulled the heavy metal door shut behind them with an echoing thud that cut out the rush of the wind, and he paused only long enough to engage all the appropriate locks before following Q into the familiar interior of the clock-tower.

“Leave those boots down here, would you?” Q called, “I have papers upstairs all over the floor, and I don’t want you to ruin them.”

The three floors at the top of the tower were more or less the same size. A wrought iron staircase ran through them, connecting the three near the glass face of the clocktower, and the lowest level – the one they were currently in – was the shallowest in order to allow for the clockwork mechanism to run down to the lower levels. It was here that Q had fitted an oven within which he could cook, and a fireplace that funnelled warm air through the rest of the floors using large copper pipes. There was also a beautiful antique bathtub, and a tank of water that was connected to a network of pipes that collected rainwater from the outside of the clock-tower.

James unbuckled his flight boots, leaving them near the staircase and watched as Q poured something hot from a large metal jug. There was a cloth-covered tray nearby, smelling of warm food.

James’ stomach made a loud, grumbling noise.

Q looked up, eyes crinkling.

“Don’t come to expect this,” he said, “But if you’re hungry, there’s dinner. I brought extra. But we’ll eat upstairs.”

James took the tray as Q wrapped the hot mug in a spare tea-cloth. Balancing the bag and the tray, James followed Q up the winding staircase, past the workshop (which was indeed currently covered with papers – there was one particularly large piece spanning half the floor, onto which a half-finished schematic was inked), and towards the top of the tower. He could see London through the glass of the clock-face, a lattice of lamplight and the occasional moving speck that was a flyer or a larger ship. The city itself was dark save for the lights, yawning downwards in every blackening shadows.

Inside the clock tower, the air was warm and bright with oil and gas lamps. They hung from all points of the ceiling and around the walls, connected to switches. The workshop was the only level that Q had wired to electric bulbs, but he complained it was too expensive and difficult to maintain for the entire three floors, the way the bulbs kept blowing. Here, there were hand-held lamps too, one on the coffee table, the other near the bed, another two sitting atop two precarious stacks of books. Q lifted one off the table so James could put down his tray and undo the cuff.

James dropped the bag onto the rug with a groan of relief, rotating his shoulder. The jacket followed suit, with considerably less care, to the ground.

Q made a noise and retrieved the jacket as James dropped into the nearest chair, tipping his head back.

“Such respect for your station, Captain,” Q said, shaking out the jacket and inspecting the burn marks in the fabric. One of the sleeves had a large black scorch mark, and the back of the jacket was also burned.

James waved a lazy hand.

“Looks better on you anyway,” he said, “Put it on.”

Then he paused, giving Q a once over.

“Maybe take off the rest of your clothes first,” said James, grinning with all his teeth.

Q rolled his eyes.

“I’m pretty sure it is against the law for me to wear this,” he said, but pulled it over his shoulders. It was much too broad for Q’s slim frame, and it hung off him like a great coat on a child. Q surveyed himself in the mirror that leaned against the wall next to the bed, striking a ridiculous pose; cocking his hip and tilting his chin up.

“And really, I don’t think white is my colour. It would be stained black within a day. Didn’t you have a matching hat?”

“Lost it.”

“Like you _lost_ the hand-gun I made you?” asked Q with a huff, turning from the mirror.

There was a great pain in James’ chest, like someone had filed his ribs down to dust, ready to break with the next beat of his heart. Something must have shown in his expression, a silence too long, because Q’s smile faltered, brows furrowing.

“James?”

“Come here,” said James, lifting his arms, entreating.

Q came, folded himself into the embrace without complaint. James buried his face in Q’s hair. It a mess, sticking up all over the place, but soft. He breathed in and held it, held so still that the only thing he could hear was their hearts beating in tandem, and the soft scratch-scratch of the phonograph that James had brought back almost a year ago from America. The track must have run out sometime whilst they were out on the landing.

“God, I’ve missed you,” said James, words muffled by the hair.

He wasn’t sure if he had actually spoken out loud.

“And I, you,” said Q, each word a little puff of breath against James’ throat.

“Do you think it sentiment or old age?”

“In your case,” said Q, “Both.”

“Old age is not something _you_ can hold accountable, I’m afraid.”

“Quite. Only foolishness.”

“That disease which plagues even the cleverest of men.”

Q shifted against James, cat like.

“And am _I_ the cleverest?”

“Oh yes. And the most vain.”

James could feel Q smile against his skin.

“It is not vanity if it is justified.”

James’ stomach chose this moment to make itself known again, and they both snorted with laughter. After a moment, Q pulled himself out from beneath James’ chin, left cheek redder than the right.

“Food for you,” he said. Then glanced pointedly at the bag at their feet. “Gifts for me.”

 

 

Q ended up eating half of James’ dinner ( _“I didn’t eat lunch,” he said with a sniff_ ). It was slightly cold, but delicious after a long day without food. Despite his insistence that James shouldn’t come to expect anything, there was a impressive spread of James’ favourite cuts of meat along side luxuriously thick bread and hot stew in a fire-warmed stone bowl.

They had long since finished, abandoning the table and the empty plates for the expanse of sky that was the clock-face, the topmost arch of it reaching to the ceiling and disappearing past the floorboards and down towards the workshop. They had extinguished most of the lamps so that they could see the stars, leaving only one lamp burning low by the staircase and another at their elbow.

They sat on floor, cushioned only by blankets and each-others’ affections. James was nursing a glass of amber whiskey, his heavy bag lying open between the two of them and Q’s eyes bright with excitement despite late hour.

Currently he was examining beautiful sniper rifle that James had stolen for him. It was a precision weapon, rather than an ornamental one, but did possess and exquisite holster inlaid with gold. Q held the crystal-mount up to the lamp light, assessing and appreciative. There was something about the way his long fingers curled around the barrel that made James’ stomach pool with heat.

“A new type of bullet too, apparently,” said James, handing Q a case lined with cloth. There were a row of heavy silver bullets, one of which had been disassembled. Q was practically salivating, and when he looked up, his expression was dark with lust.

“You know me so well,” he said, leaning forwards.

James grinned, pulling out a roll of paper secured in a metal tube. Q’s eyes widened.

“Is that – “

“ – schematics,” said James, smug.

Carefully, Q closed the bullet case and lay it gently next to the gun beside him (beside which lay an experimental telescope James had also acquired on the way home, as well eleven vials of unidentified poison which had been cunningly disguised as pen-ink).

“I think you come here,” said Q, pinning James in place with a piercing stare, “And kiss me.”

“But what about the rest of my gifts?” asked James, innocently, “I haven’t just brought you weapons, you know.”

He reached into the bag and pulled out a heavy stack of cloth-bound books. Pulling the wrapping aside, he turned them over so Q could see the hand-carved covers, illustrations coloured with semi-precious stones and bright exotic ink. The pages were thick, weighed heavy with colours and love-stained craftsmanship.

“ _Oh,_ ” said Q, going doe-eyed (because if there was one thing Q loved more than new machines and unseen inventions, it was art), “Is that – that fellow in Japan, that painter – “

Q reached out with both hands to take the books, expression rapturous.

James drew back.

“I know regret is imminent, but I must ask,” said James, holding the bag out of reach, “…would you rather a kiss or the books?”

“Books,” said Q, without the slightest hesitation.

James laughed, hard and hurting, so fond with love he could have died right there and then; a man who had everything.

Q held his hands out more insistently, fingers twitching.

“ _James!_ ”

James pushed the books behind his back.

“Now be honest,” he said, “Would you still love me if didn’t bring you these gifts?”

“Your kisses have depreciated in value,” said Q, turning his nose up in mock disdain, “Due to inflation. Of course the books are worth more. Give them to me.”

“ _Inflation_ ,” James repeated, trying not to give into another bout of laughter.

“Alright,” Q conceded, “They may have slightly higher value considering how long you have been gone. But it is not as if I could not have them anytime I wished. These books, however, have never been sold here and I demand you hand them over this minute.”

“No,” said James, “I’m not sure I am entirely agreeable to this idea. Perhaps I should ransom these for your continued affections. Perhaps a kiss for every page – “

Q made a frustrated noise, then clambered over the bag and into James’ lap. Holding James’ face still with both his hands, Q pressed his lips against James’ own; kissed him so thoroughly that both of them were gasping by the end of it, faces flushed. Q’s eyes were mere moon-crescents, crinkled up with laughter. James thought, for a moment, he could see the entire sky in them, before he realised the stars were London’s lights, reflected off the glass.

“I think,” said Q, voice a mere rough whisper, “That was worth at least an entire chapter.”

James slid his hands beneath Q’s shirt, hungry for skin. He pulled Q close, thumbs pressing just below the twin curves of his ribs.

“I nearly lost an arm stealing those,” said James.

“Well I am very relieved that you did not stain these by bleeding everywhere, as you are wont to do,” said Q, both palms still pressed to James’ face, fingertips in James’ hair. He could feel the calluses on those familiar hands, the ones from writing, the ones from shooting, the ones that was scarred over from handling metal straight from the fire.

_I’m glad your home safe. I’m glad you’re not hurt again._

He felt like one of Q’s inventions, one of his automatons; James imagined what their world must be like, all points of purpose, wants, desires, stripped away until there was only the feel of Q’s hands like electricity.

“I killed him,” said James after a long while, “The mole. Had to kill the crew to make it out.”

Q traced the pad of his thumb gently beneath James’ eye.

 “We’re not at peace,” said James; exhausted.

“Mother wants nothing but weapons from me,” said Q, “All you warships and soldiers, masquerading as cargo and merchants.”

“She’s not your mother.”

“As good as,” said Q, very quietly.

“As long as it keeps the war away from London, I’ll do whatever she wants.”

_Away from you._

“James.”

He closed his eyes and dug his own fingertips into Q’s smooth skin, palming the slope of his spine, counting each knob with the rhythm of their exhales. James pushed his hands up, and Q let him strip him of his shirt, hands disappearing from James’ face in order to pull through the sleeves – a momentary arch of him against the dark sky making James’ breath hitch.

Q’s fingers were deft; making short work of the buttons on James’ shirt. The glass was cold against his shoulder, but James let Q press him back against the blankets until all he could see were sloe-eyes and the sky, dark and still.

“Bring me nothing but your company,” said Q, “And I shall love you always.”

His hair was so dark that it was only by the sputtering of the stars that James could tell them apart. He always thought it was ironic, that someone so afraid of flying yearned so desperately for the sky. James pulled Q closer, wanting the weight of him to press down on his lungs and leave him breathless.

“May I?” he asked.

 

(The books would lie forgotten.)

 

:i:

 

Later, when the clock had long since struck three in the morning and the sky was not ink but the grain of black sand on a lake; later, when James’ hands were a little less desperate and they were curled up around each-other like matching apostrophes with nothing left to say in between. Later, when their breaths had slowed almost to sleep, lazy in the safety skin-warmed sheets, slightly sticky.

They would watch the minute hand of the clock tick; James’ head pillowed on Q’s chest.

“Sometimes I wish we never invented the airships,” said Q into the quiet.

For a long moment, there was no response – and if it wasn’t for James’ hand tracing an idle repetitive pattern on the skin of Q’s hip, he would have thought the Captain asleep.

“You’re biased,” said James at last, not lifting his head, “your inexplicable fear of flying.”

“No,” said Q, “It’s not the flying. It’s the ore.”

“The ore?” asked James, mind still fogged in the pleasant afterglow. But it was so very like Q to get philosophical after sex.

“England’s insatiable hunger for it,” Q said, “We’re all so enamoured with the sky we forget the earth we stain.”

And those left on it, thought James, pressing a kiss to Q’s cheek. Q sighed, turning inwards towards him. His hair was a mess on the pillow, pupils dark in the low light of the remaining lamp.

“Half the time I’m convinced that if only I found a way – a better way to power these ships, the lights, London herself – if only then you’d need not disappear off to the Americas all these months.”

James sighed.

“The mines are there.”

“Every season I see the ships come in,” said Q, as if he hadn’t heard, “Heavy with ore. They send you out as guard detail to the most coveted cargo in Europe, and it’s you that pay the price, it’s the war ships we lose, ships like _Skyfall_ – ”

James tightened his hold, pulling Q close so he wouldn’t have to finish his sentence. He stared out over Q’s shoulder, at the lights plotting out London’s veins, at Westminster half way to the horizon. He thought of Q, brilliant, clever, earthbound Q, counting the ships as they came to berth; waiting for the day that _Skyfall_ didn’t come home.

“ _Skyfall_ is the most well fitted ship in the navy,” said James, “Thanks to you.”

The words seemed little comfort.

“And it’s not just the ore. You know that’s mostly a cover for the missions.”

“Yes,” said Q, whispered confessions into the hollow of James’ throat, “And even if I did invent some miraculous new engine that ran on nothing but air, they’d still find a way to get you killed.”

“Don’t,” said James, because he couldn’t bear it, not so soon, “Q.”

There was a long moment of silence.

Then:

“I’m sorry,” said Q. “I know it’s unfair to ask this of you.”

And it was true. Flying was in James’ blood; he could no more stay anchored to the earth than Q could stop creating wondrous, marvellous machines.

“There is nothing I own, nothing I am,” said James, as solemnly as he knew how, “that I would not give if you’d only ask.”

That earned a small, watery smile. Q turned his face up, eyes very wet.

“You say the most ridiculous things,” he said, “and sound like every one of your dramatic letters.”

“And yet you keep them all,” said James, having to carve the words out on the edges of his lips because he could barely take the ache in his chest.

Q leaned back against the pillow.

“I might have burned them all,” he said.

Sitting up, James rubbed his eyes before slipping out from under the sheets in search of his bag.

Q propped himself up slightly on one bony elbow.

“What are you doing? Come back.”

“Hold on,” said James, rummaging through the bag for a specific parcel. It was wrapped with plenty of padded paper, and tied with string multiple times over. Retrieving it, James returned to the bed, and passed the package to Q who took it with curious eyes.

“Another gift,” he said, scooting backwards to sit up against the pillow. The sheets pooled about his hips, enticing.

“I had a fiddle with it on the way back,” said James casually, “But couldn’t figure it out. I thought you might enjoy it.”

Q made quick work of the string, and the paper fell apart to reveal a twelve-sided box, roughly the size of two fists. It was heavy, made of silver and bronze, each face consisting of tessellated shapes outlined in metal and inlaid with tortoise shell. It glittered in the lamplight as Q turned it over in his hands.

“Oh _James,_ ” he said, “I forgive you for losing my gun.”

James smiled, pleased. Q always had a burning lust for puzzles and things to solve.

“Do we know what’s inside it?” asked Q, sliding one of the little tiles across so he could twist a face of the box clockwise. It turned smoothly with a faint whirr of hidden gears, clicking into place with a _snick_.

“No idea.”

“Where did you get it?”

“Stole it.”

Q gave him a flat look; but allowed himself to be drawn into a kiss, soft and pliant again. When finally they broke for breath, James realised Q’s hands hadn’t stopped moving because he was twisting a different tile now.

“You must tell me the story behind this,” said Q, eyes bright.

“Sleep first,” said James, flopping back onto his pillow.

“Mmhm,” said Q, not taking his eyes off the puzzle box. “It _is_ rather past your bedtime, old man.”

James didn’t reply, merely looped one arm across Q’s waist and pulled him close so he could kiss the bare skin of his hip. _Snick_ went the puzzle.

Then, the feel of Q brushing James’ face with the back of his hand.

“It’s a wonderful piece of craftsmanship,” said Q, carding through James hair with one hand, “Thank you.”

James sighed.

“You’re not getting any sleep tonight, are you?”

Q raised an eyebrow, box held close to his chest. Then he relented, turning to place the puzzle box carefully on the bedside table before sliding back down, curling inwards. He only stilled when they were facing each-other, so close their noses almost touched. Q’s eyes still held the reflection of tortoiseshell.

They fell asleep like that, waiting for the other to close their eyes.

 

:i:

 

Unlike Saint Stephen’s tower, Q’s clock-tower only had one clock-face, turned north. The glass was not stained, saved for the very eye of the clock which still held the original rose-emblem of England picked out in red and green glass.

At sunrise, all three floors would be flooded with dawn light. Q had to install a section of drapes that hung from the ceiling, dark black cloth which allowed one to sleep slightly past five in the morning. In the desperate fervour of the night previous, neither he nor James had remembered to pull the drapes. Which was why it was such a surprise when he woke, fully rested, blinking awake to a shadowed room from half-drawn drapes. The bed beside him was empty, sheets slightly rumpled, but someone had pulled the duvet up so that it formed a lump to which Q had recently been hugging.

Q rubbed his eyes to clear them.

One advantage of living inside a giant clock was the redundancy of all other time keeping devices, and it was almost noon.

 _It was almost noon._ Q pushed himself up into a sitting position via his elbows.

“James,” Q called.

No answer.

“ _James_ ,” said Q, louder this time, “I shall have your guts for garters. How could you do this to me?”

Still no answer.

Q groaned, flopping back onto his pillow because there was a faint headache behind his eyes and he was sore all over. He felt like he might never walk again – and winced when he attempted to turn and felt his thighs protesting. He gave up, burying his face into the pillow and thought of all the things he would do to James in revenge for somehow disabling his alarm.

He stewed in such plans for perhaps ten minutes before there was the sound of approaching footsteps on the staircase; another two before James’ blond head appeared past the floorboards. He was preceded by the smell of hot tea, freshly toasted bread and –

Q turned in his pillow so he could peer up at James with one eye.

“Is that bacon?” he asked, squinting.

“Yes,” said James.

“But I didn’t _have_ any bacon,” said Q, confused.

“I know,” said James. “I went out and fetched some.”

Clearing a space from the bedside table by displacing half a dozen books and a glass jar full of copper coins, James set the wooden tray down. Q looked at it. There was actual real bacon, still half sizzling, sitting on a small stack of toast. There was an egg too, yolk still sticky, the way Q liked but could never quite achieve.

“It’s a miracle that you don’t starve to death every time I’m away,” James continued, pressing the mug of tea (already complete with milk and sugar) into Q’s hands and nudging him into a sitting position, “I hope Tanner makes food deliveries, otherwise judging by the state of your larder…”

“ _Lord_ Tanner,” said Q, “is not meant for such duties. And neither are any of the engineers, I don’t want to hear you terrorising the workshops again.”

James slid a slice of bacon onto a buttered piece of toast and ate it with all the grace of a starving man. Q made a protesting sound at the crumbs on the sheets, but couldn’t find it in himself to be very annoyed considering he was now in possession of tea.

He took a long sip and felt clarity returning to his world. Speaking of clarity:

“I wish you wouldn’t disable my alarms,” he said, setting his mug down and reaching for the food, “I had an eight o’clock appointment.”

James shrugged.

“You looked exhausted.”

Q paused in his chewing to give the pilot a very narrow stare.

“I wonder why,” he said.

James grinned, shamelessly sliding a hand down Q’s waist and leaning in for a kiss. Q turned away so that James only caught his cheek.

“Stop it, I’m _eating_ ,” he said, chewing extra loudly for emphasis.

James kissed him beneath his jaw, forcing Q to tilt his head, before working his way down his neck. His hand continued to wander until Q smacked him on the arm.

“I’m serious,” he said, trying to not squirm, “ _James_.”

James laughed, a soft sound deep in his throat that made Q’s skin flush pleasantly hot.

“I’ve missed you,” James said, against Q’s pulse, “Wasn’t going to lose you to Whitehall all day. The bureaucrats have had you to themselves for the past four months.”

“Not without protest,” said Q, swallowing his last bite and patting James absently on the back of his head whilst he worried at Q’s collarbone with his teeth. “I swear I could find an Ore alternative by Christmas if they left me alone long enough to work. But they insist on _meetings_ and _interruptions_.”

“I could go have a word,” said James.

“No,” said Q, flatly, “They would withhold money from us and then where would I be?”

“Rich and living off pirate gold,” said James promptly.

Q laughed.

“How could I forget,” he said, “I’m harbouring a criminal.”

“Why am I _Captain Bond_ , when bringing you gifts,” said James, climbing more fully onto the bed and leaning over Q on his elbows, “But now a _criminal_ after cooking you breakfast and offering you a life of hedonistic luxury?”

“Excuse you, _Captain_ ,” said Q, running his hand up and down the nape of James neck, “I can afford my own hedonistic luxuries.”

“Considering you had barely half a loaf of bread earlier,” said James, leaning close, “That is something I highly doubt.”

“Mother always said you were going to corrupt me,” said Q, sly.

James rolled his eyes skywards, making Q laugh again.

“Could we not bring Her bloody Majesty into this bed?”

Q gave an exaggerated gasp and fluttered his eyelashes.

“But Captain,” he said, rolling his hips up and making James groan into his mouth, “Surely we are men of Queen and Country.”

James’ eyes were hooded with want. He leaned in for another kiss.

“I’ll show you what we’re – ”

Q flipped them over on the bed. James went with a surprised huff of breath, flat on his back on his side of the bed. His expression was so endearing that Q couldn’t stop grinning. Straddling James’ hips, he cocked his head to one side. He began to slid his open palms down James’ shoulder, traced each dip between his ribs and down to his navel.

Then Q promptly swung his leg over and slid off the bed. Getting to his feet, Q said:

“You’ve made me late enough, don’t you think?”

From the bed came a shocked, mutinous silence.

Then:  “What,” said James.

Q gave him an innocent look and pulled on his pants. Next, trousers. Ah, there they were.

“I’m late,” said Q, taking another piece of toast from the plate and pinched the last bit of bacon, “Come on. I need to drop by the Library before Whitehall. It’s going to take at least half an hour.”

“ _What,_ ” James repeated.

“Are you growing hard of hearing?” said Q in a tone of mock concern, “Is it the old age? Perhaps I should make you a hearing aid.”

“ _Q!_ ”

Dragging the drapes back towards the wall, Q paused only to rummage through his closet for a fresh shirt and fight with the sleeves and collar. When he emerged, victorious, it was to find James still on the bed, giving him an utter look of betrayal.

Q widened his own eyes.

“ _Well?_ ”

 

:i:

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first time James meets Q, it's on a floating ballroom a few hundred miles above the ocean. Waltzes, insults, court gossip and blatant disregard for decorum are all present (neither Silva nor Tanner are very happy about anything). 
> 
> The second time James meets Q, Q is saving his life.

:i:

_"Once you have tasted flight,_  
you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward.”  
–  Leonardo da Vinci

:i:

 

> _Pas de Calais, ten miles off the coast of Dover.  
>  Eight years ago._

Even for someone who spent half his life in the air, the new state ballroom was a marvel.

Its size was not the most remarkable thing, though it was easily as large as one of the trans-Atlantic passenger ships or one of the larger ore miners. It was by no means the biggest of Britain’s ships. Indeed, it was barely a ship at all, a large oval shaped vessel that was almost entirely taken up with the ballroom itself, all its engines and blades tucked beneath her so that she floated on the shore of the clouds like a giant glittery opal.

A broad promenade ran all the way around her like the sweep of a ball gown, tiered to allow smaller fliers to dock and land. Already most of the attendees were here, and James could see the various crests and colours painted upon the fliers that docked: England and Frances’ richest and most powerful. The highest level ran directly out from the ballroom itself, and its gold railings reflected the late afternoon light as would a necklace around a pale throat.

The ships body, the ballroom, took up most of the deck in an enormous dome of glass and metal. Metal arches spanned the circumference, arching up like the ribs of some giant transparent beast, metal scales interlocking so that they could be folded back to reveal a skylight that spanned almost the entirety of the ballroom below. Each pane of glass on the skylight was a tessellation of pentagonal slates, cut like a jewel. From the Aston, James could see into the ballroom, the small figures of the dance-floor that wasn’t obscured by a brilliant reflection of the sky.

But even such a marvel couldn’t dull the thrum of irritation beneath James’ skin; a perpetual allergy to all political facades, especially long drawn out ones.

He ignored the flight path and flew beneath the ship, through the dark shadow cast by its monstrous underbelly where each rotor was as large as a tube carriage, spinning with a thunderous hum to keep the ballroom afloat. It was the most discreet path of arrival, avoiding the pomp and ceremony of being received and seen by every single guest. Pulling the Aston around to the lower deck, James flew past the guards and their fliers (who barely gave him a second glance due to his uniform), until he neared the second deck promenade. Guiding the Aston to the deserted head of the ship, away from the main ballroom entrances, James docked his ship, unfastening his flight goggles and helmet.

The wind whipped at his hair; but even this high up, he could smell the sea.

He would make the necessary rounds, drown himself in expensive alcohol, then bugger off before his brain rotted and his face permanently moulded itself into the kind of smile all politicians seemed to wear. Throwing his goggles into the Aston’s front compartment, James powered down the flier, watching the locking mechanisms engage in smooth clicks of polished metal. Giving her wheel one last stroke, he stepped off onto the deck in his flight boots. He checked his holster, and the gun at his back. Stripped off his flight gloves.

Distantly, James could hear the sound of a small chamber orchestra in full waltz, and sighed.

 

Inside, the ballroom was lit by a large ring of identical hanging chandeliers which circled the shape of the skylight. The room was large enough to support a sweeping staircase which fed into the rest of the ship as well as a small balcony that ran half way around the ballroom. Immediately, James spotted the Queen and her usual confidants on the second level, drinks in hand, surveying the rest of them from up high.

Taking a drink from his own glass, James took in the room around him; the vast majority of whom were dancing – though people stood at the edges too, near the window, heads together as they chattered. James was by no means the only one in uniform, considering the occasion, but he was the only one in flight boots.

He was just plotting the most strategic route when someone approached, quiet despite the lacquered wood and high heels. James turned, raising an eyebrow.

“Wing commander,” he said, lifting his half empty glass.

“Captain,” said Eve Moneypenny, tilting her chin, “You’re late.”

They traded smirks over their public titles; things that meant little more than the insignia on their uniforms. She was wearing a mask layered with gold feathers that matched the rest of her outfit. It was barely a slip of a thing, covering only the eyes and the slope of her nose.

“Where’s your mask?” she asked, raising one perfectly formed eyebrow.

James shrugged.

“Lost it,” he lied.

Eve sighed and lifted her mask so that it sat at the crown of her head. It had probably been designed that way – it looked like a tiara.

“Well, it’s not as if we’d be wearing ours for long,” she said.

“A bit ironic, don’t you think?” said James, “A masquerade to celebrate a treaty. What happened to trust and taking each-other at face value?”

Eve snorted.

“You’ve been in the field too long, Captain,” she said, “Nothing’s at face value in politics. In fact I wonder sometimes if anyone has a face at all.”

“Well, you look lovely in that dress,” said James, “So perhaps it isn’t Wing Commander tonight. Is it Baroness Apparent?”

Moneypenny rolled her eyes.

“I’m not here with my father. I’m with Mallory.”

“My question still stands,” said James, depositing his glass on a passing tray and swapping it for another. Eve immediately plucked it from his hands and downed the entire flute. At James’ questioning look, she hooked one arm through his and pulled him towards the dance floor.

“Heiress, at your six,” said Eve.

James placed a hand obligingly on her waist, turning them so that they were soon lost in the midst of dancers.

“I hardly need rescuing from heiresses,” said James, trying to see which one she had been referring to.

Eve gave him an utterly unimpressed stare.

“It wasn’t you whom I was rescuing,” she said, archly.

 

They made their way in a slow circle around the circumference of the ballroom, following the sweep of the chandeliers. James had been to enough dances to operate on autopilot; and Eve was far better dancer than he which meant that no one lost any toes. Looking around, James found he recognised most of the uniformed figures in the room, save for the ones that were French – which admittedly made up about half the hall.

“A lot of frogs tonight,” he said, eyeing a couple as they eyed him right back, distrustful in their matching masks of blue and green, “Tell me again why we flew half way across the channel?”

“International diplomacy,” said Eve, amber glittering at her throat to match the colour of the sky, “Symbolic of compromise and meeting half way and whatnot. It’s a celebration. Didn’t you get the memo about the cease fire?”

“Seems premature,” said James, pausing to spin Eve around twice, before smoothly lapsing back into the rhythm of the waltz. “How long do you think it’ll last?”

“I wouldn’t presume to know,” said Eve, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, “But I for one won’t be complaining about a truce.”

James conceded a nod and they danced the next twelve bars in comfortable silence. When the song ended, They bowed shallowly to one another, like dancers still trapped by ridiculous customs dating back to the gavotte. Eve stepped back, excusing herself from the next turn of dancers, and James followed.

“Leaving me to the wolves?” he asked.

“Hardly,” said Moneypenny, “Though I do have people to talk to. As do you, I expect.”

“Not if I can help it,” said James, scanning the figures in his immediate vicinity to make sure that there wasn’t anyone he couldn’t avoid. “I arrived late for a reason.”

“Well,” said Eve, adjusting her mask, “Do try not to cause any scandals. Especially not with any of the French girls.”

James smirked.

“Of course not.”

“Hmm,” said Eve, but she was smiling. Tapping his shoulder with the back of her index finger, she passed him a conciliatory glass of champagne.

“And do avoid irritating Mallory,” she said, “He’s not very fond of you.”

“I’ll do my best,” said James, to the sound of the next song starting with a swell of strings. _A whole chamber orchestra_ , thought James, absently counting the number of cellos. _How lovely_.

With one last brilliant smile, Eve disappeared into the crowd, soon lost in an ever shifting sea of expensive jewellery and heavy gowns. James downed his drink in one. He would need a lot more than champagne to get through the next few hours.

 

Within minutes of the next dance ending, James was approached by a young woman in a blue dress and a Parisian accent. She had a mask made of lace and a jewel the size of a goose egg at her throat. Decorum stated no more than one dance with a stranger, especially as it was ostentatiously a political affair – so James danced with Marie twice, before relinquishing her to an irate French pilot.

He saw her majesty near the chamber orchestra, then once again with the French head of state near the east of the ship. James knew he would have to do the necessary rounds (here being M and no one else, if he could help it) before he was allowed to disappear.

He danced five more times with three different women; let the orchestra rotate diplomatically between English and French composers, with Tchaikovsky making a repeated appearance. He wished they would dispense with the first altogether.  

This high up, the sunset’s lifetime elongated like a suspended note, its rays lingering until the very last bar of the horizon. It clung to the glass skylight like water spilled, golden and amber. It slid down the metal arches, clinging to the surface of the great sheets of glass, past the balcony on the second floor and to the wooden floor they all stood on.

Even amidst the façade of politics, James could appreciate the beauty of it all.

He wasn’t a pilot by force, after all.

Eventually though, he tired of making small talk and retreated up the grand staircase to the overhanging balcony. He could see the hall ballroom from here, and out of the glass, most of the ship itself and all three tiers of promenade. Little lamps had been lit all along the edge, pooling spots of light which illuminated a few figures that had retreated outside for the view and the fresh air. The wind grabbed at sleeves and dresses, and someone’s mask went flying by, a flash of glitter and cloth.

James took a long drink from his glass, savouring the whiskey that he had managed to bully out of one of the waiters.

It was nightfall now, and the sky was clear enough that James could have mapped all the stars and steered himself to America without a compass. Setting his empty glass aside on a windowsill, he was about to turn back to the ballroom when something caught his eye, down below on deck.

Stepping closer to the glass, James moved so he blocked out some of the light from the chandeliers behind him.

There, past the railing of the first promenade, was the second tier. He could see the shape of the various fliers and transporters that were docked there, metal reflecting the lamplight. And towards the left, next to the Aston’s familiar silhouette, was a figure. He had one hand on the Aston’s left wing, and was crouched low over her.

James frowned, a thrill of suspicion cold at the base of his spine.

Whoever it was, they weren’t military – the cut of the suit was not uniform, for one thing. It was French, too. When the man turned very slightly, his profile was utterly unfamiliar.

“Sir?”

James turned. It was a waiter with a proffered tray of crystal glasses. Distractedly, James waved him away, and then began the long ardours journey downstairs. He knew he was turning heads by the pace of his steps, but his curiosity got the better of him as he side stepped a Duchess and made his excuses to a fellow Commodore.

After the ballroom, the air outside was bitingly cold now that the sun had gone. As the doorman let the doors close behind him, the music was suddenly dimmed, the strings muffled as the waltz carried on.

Straightening his cuffs, and checking the guns at his back and in his shoulder holster, James made his way briskly down the promenade, turning down the nearest narrow stairwell and descending to the second level. He wanted to catch whoever he was.

The Aston was docked almost near the brow of the ship, and it was another few minutes before James came close enough to see it.

The figure was still there, one pale hand on her chassis as he bent over her wings.

The sound of the wind and the distant thrum of the ship engines were loud enough to muffle James’ footsteps as he approached. He stopped just shy of the Aston. This close, he could see that the man was more rather a boy; a youthful profile backlit by the lamps, a mess of dark hair and thin wrists exposed by sleeves carelessly pushed up to the forearms.

James cleared his throat.

The boy gave a start, turning around and straightening in one long gesture of unfolding limbs. Absently, James noted that he had a very fine arse.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the boy in smooth Oxbridge vowels, “Is she yours?”

 “Yes,” said James, “I’d appreciate if you didn’t touch anything. It’s vintage; not your usual controls.”

The boy tilted his chin up, mouth twitching at the corners.

“You’ll find there isn’t a single ship here that I didn’t know better than you,” he said, voice aloft with derision. A breath’s pause as his eyes flickered over James’ insignia, “ _Captain_.”

James raised his eyebrows, incredulous.

“Is that right?” he said, leaning against the Aston possessively. “And you would be?”

The boy blinked, sloe eyed. The wind blew hair across his face, and he looked almost fey in the lamplight in his dark suit. His mask was hanging about his neck, a heavy metallic thing tied to a strip of black ribbon.

“An engineer,” said the boy, “in her Majesty’s service.”

He certainly wasn’t French, at any rate, with an accent like that. And with security the way it was tonight, James had never been truly worried – though relief was a comforting thing.

“They’re hiring infants now, are they?”

The boy let out an amused exhale of breath, lips parting; flicker of tongue against teeth.

“Age has no bearing upon competence, Captain,” he said, “Not in my line of work. Though I suppose you’ll be retiring in yours soon?”

James grinned. He offered his hand.

“Bond,” he said, “James Bond.”

There was a flash of recognition in the boy’s eyes, and when he took his hands, his skin was cold from having been out in the night. He had callouses, but not from flying.

“Of the _Skyfall_?” he said, and there was something lovely about the way he said her name that made James lean closer with interest, eyes taking in those high cheekbones, slim shadow cut by shoulder and waist, long gazelle legs.

James inclined his head.

A pause, filled with nothing but wind and their mutual, measuring gaze. The boy let go of James’ hand, and busied himself pulling down his sleeves and adjusting his cuffs.

“Q,” he conceded, after a long pause.

James waited for a last name, but it never came. The boy must belong to someone important, otherwise he wouldn’t be here.

“Charmed,” said James, dryly, “And what were you doing to my Aston earlier?”

“Lamenting at the state of her wings,” said Q, “Whoever did her modifications seemed to have been an utter fool, changing her engines but not her wings. The speed alone could be multiplied twice over if it had been altered to one of the newer alloys.”

“ _I_ did the modifications,” said James nonchalantly.

Even though his expression didn’t waver, the boy’s cheeks flushed with colour and it was unexpectedly endearing. If James had been another kind of man, he might have called it sweet. Q’s lip twitched, as if he was struggling with an apology.

“Well,” he said, and James could drink those vowels down with his whiskey, smooth as silk, “At least you’ve treated her well. I came to examine her due to the work you’ve done on her tail fins. Impressive, for an hobbyist.”

“Is it difficult?” said James, cocking one eyebrow. “Being so assured of your own skill. It must be a heavy burden to bear, for one so young.”

“It is no burden if it is the truth,” said Q, without missing a beat, “And certainly no more than a man who feels it necessary to keep five pieces of firearms about his person at a masquerade ball.”

“Eight, actually,” said James, grinning with all his teeth.

Q folded his arms in an attempt to look unimpressed, but James could see that he was starting to shiver in the wind. He wore a waistcoat beneath his unbuttoned jacket; though he was much too young for it. Out of politeness, James went to shrug off his jacket.

“No thank you,” said Q pre-emptively.

James raised an eyebrow.

“Your fingers are blue,” he said, but obligingly re-buttoned his coat. “Speaking of which, is it not a little inappropriate for Her Majesty’s engineer to be wearing a French cut?”

Q looked surprised at the observation, and he touched one of the polished buttons below his lapel, an unconscious movement.

“Strategic decision, actually. Entirely appropriate if you don’t want to suffocate beneath political small talk.”

Definitely belonged to someone of import, then, thought James, watching as Q brushed hair out of his eyes. It was a battle with the wind that he was slowly losing.

“It confuses them, you see,” Q went on, “The British dislike making nice with the French. They’ll err on the side of caution and cut their losses. Whilst the French are most put out when I start talking in English. Neither conversation lasts long.”

He paused, eyes flickering over James as if making an inventory; dark with absent interest.

“Indeed, _this_ is the longest conversation I have been forced to hold the entire evening,” he said, “So if you’ll excuse me.”

Q stepped away from the Aston. Giving her one last, regretful look, he turned and began striding back up the promenade. Slightly blindsided by the abrupt goodbye, it only took James a moment to collect himself and turn after the young engineer. Within three strides he had caught up.

“Well,” he said, conversationally, “I could see how you might be mistaken for French, by your manners if not the cut of that suit.”

Q flicked him an annoyed look; half his face was lit from the lamps, the other thrown heavily shadowed. There might have been a smile though.

“Do leave me alone, Captain.”

“Come now,” said James, falling into step as they climbed the staircase to the first level promenade. “If I’m associated with you, they might think me French as well.”

It was brighter here, though everyone seemed to have retreated indoors as the night fell. There were a few silhouetted against the railings; but most were the flight guards on duty. Just beyond the perimeter of the ship, James could see the patrol flyers, doing their rounds.

Q didn’t even bother turning or slowing.

“Hardly likely, given your uniform.”

“Then you’ll have to give me a dance, won’t you?” said James, offering his most charming smile, “scandalise the small talk right from their heads.”

At this, Q did falter, surprise making his eyes widen. It was rather sweet, really. His face was an open book, expressions neat handwritten prose. Perhaps the younger son of one of the councilmen; certainly not one that would be expected to go into cutthroat politics or negotiate the steps of a war. He didn’t speak with the airs of someone used to facades. At least, not yet.

Q drew himself up, straightening in indignation like an offended cat.

“No,” he said.

“Surely it is common courtesy,” said James, “After having fondled another man’s lady for so long? And without permission, I might add.”

Q blinked rapidly, looking as if he had inhaled the wrong way.

“I was _hardly_ –“ he said, and pale face flushed with pride or the cold or both, “ – there was no _fondling_ of involved. I was merely lamenting the extent to which such a beautiful machine had its potential squandered by a pilot who was clearly more focused on form than function.”

“But surely there’s something to be said about beautiful things,” said James.

“I think we define ‘beauty’ very differently, Captain,” said Q.

“If you dance with me, I’ll take you on a spin later,” James insisted, because this man was far too amusing to rile and would probably redeem the entire boring evening from the depths of hell to which it would surely descend, “One dance, and we can escape all the politicians that might ambush you, French or no.”

“Absolutely not,” said Q, chin high and pretty lips pressed determinedly into a frown.

They had stopped outside one of the side doors to the ballroom, and the hum of chattering voices could be heard just below the wafting of violins.

Q paused to replace his mask upon his face, fingers deft and practiced with the ribbon as he retied it behind his head. It was relatively simple mask, fitted over the eyes and nose, cutting a curved tidy line just across the man’s cheekbones. It looked to be made of interlocking metallic scales, leaving comfortable space for the eyes.

Q wrenched open one of the doors, and slipped through before James could catch it. Pulling it open, James re-entered the ballroom, wry smile on his face as he watched Q’s slim dark figure slip in between and through a crowd of dancers.

They were near the foot of the grand staircase, just beyond the orchestra stage. The last song was ending and it sounded as the next one was another waltz.

It was relatively busy here. James might have lost track of Q entirely between the gowns and masks if the man himself hadn’t suddenly reappeared a few minutes later at his shoulder, looking rather wild about the eyes.

“Alright,” he said, crisply, “That dance, Captain. Let us have it.”

James’ eyebrows shot up.

“Do the winds always change this quickly,” he said, “Or is it the late autumn season.”

“ _Now_ , if you please. There is someone I would rather like to avoid, and they are heading this way.”

An impatient hand, twitching fingers; offered.

Bemused, James let himself be led into the thickest part of the crowd, taking a place near the cellos. He went to slide one arm around Q’s waist, only to receive a sharp slap on the back of his hand.

“I’m leading,” said Q, haughtily.

James huffed out a laugh as the beginnings of the waltz began, and the chatter around them dropped to a low soothing hum. They were receiving a few looks from the other dance partners, but they were looks of interest, not disgust. Even so, James was acutely aware that he was the only one in the vicinity without a mask.

 “For someone I’m supposedly saving, you’re extremely ungrateful,” he said.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” said Q, “you were simply the most convenient option.”

They fell into the steps of the waltz easily, and it was immediately clear that Q was a practiced dancer. At least coordinated enough not to step on James’ leather shoes. It was only slightly jarring to be dancing all the steps in reverse, but Q’s hand at the small of his back – and that every so haughty expression – was well worth it.  

James took the opportunity of a change in phrase to step closer, so they were chest to chest. He could see Q swallow, tracking the movement of that pale throat. Then he used Q’s evident distraction at their proximity to twirl him around when the music demanded it, easily slipping from the arm around his own waist in order to turn Q with his other hand. When they faced each other once more, the melody at switched to the treble and James was leading.

Q looked momentarily gobsmacked, eyes wide in that metal mask. They were so dark; they reflected the chandeliers above them in perfect symmetry.

James smiled, faux polite as Q was forced to step backwards instead of forwards. With a resigned look, Q placed his other arm at James’ elbow, rolling his eyes as he did so.

“Are you always so irritating?”

“Are you always so contrary?”

Q blinked slowly, “I’m never contrary,” he said archly, “Only _right_.”

“One might wonder why your astounding avoidance strategy would fail to work on this admirer of yours then,” said James.

“He’s not an admirer,” said Q, looking sulky, “Only, if he gets a hold of me, I’ll have to spend the rest of the evening _talking_.”

“How horrific,” said James blandly, “I suppose we’ll have to keep dancing then.”

Q glared at him, but it was a lot less dismissive.

With his mask on, he looked a little like one of those jewelled lizards, with his pointy nose and deep set eyes, the scales of his mask warm and bronze beneath the chandelier light. It framed his brow in an elegant sweep, the edges at his hair like a crown.

His fingers were no longer cold; held in James’ own. He could feel the callouses on Q’s index finger, a dry palm, bird thin wrists.

“Might I ask why you were out there freezing all your appendages off?” said James, as they passed the quarter-mark of the ballroom.

“No,” said Q.

There was a bar or two of eyebrow raising before he relented, looking a little sheepish.

“I was waiting for a friend,” he admitted, “Not strictly on the guest list, you’d understand. But he said he would drop by. I thought if I escorted him in, it wouldn’t be such a scene.”

“Frenchman?”

Q laughed, and James tightened his hand reflexively at the sound.

“Gods no,” said Q. “Spaniard.”

“Dangerous acquaintances to keep at the moment,” said James, casually. Especially since England and France had just signed a treaty specifically to gang up on the Spanish. It would be more than unwise for this friend to turn up at the celebration of said treaty. James wondered who it was; mentally tallying any Englishman who had familial links to Spain. Perhaps by marriage?

“Heritage has no bearing on loyalty,” said Q firmly.

James regarded Q afresh, that thin pale face, no marks of loyalty on his lapels. There was the gold band of a ring on his left hand, but the crest was in-turned; tucked between the curls of his fingers.

“But blood may,” said James. “As the English are for England, blood will fight for blood.”

“And kill for blood,” said Q, “men who have no fathers choose their own – and they love them twice as much. What is to say that is not the same for Airmen too?”

 “So he’s a pilot then,” said James, deliberately avoiding the intentional provocation.

Q’s eyes flickered away, answer in and of itself.

“I think we choose to be loyal,” said James, “Free will hardest to break.”

Q regarded him for a whole seven bars, their steps taking around the centre of the ballroom and towards the glass windows.

“I suppose you would know more about it than I,” said Q at last, without any of his earlier condescension, “After all I do not risk my life in the field as you do.”

“All men are loyal to something,” said James.

The waltz was coming to an end now, the refrain lilting and dramatic. They were almost back where they had started, having made a full circle. James let the music carry them the last stretch of the way. He pulled Q closer with the hand at the small of his back.

“If you attempt to spin me again,” said Q suddenly, digging his nails into the back of James’ hand in warning, “I shall not be held responsible for the consequn – _Captain!_ ”

 

:i:

 

“You can return my hand now.”

“I could. For the price of another dance.”

“ _You – !_ Certainly not.”

“But I thought you were avoiding someone.”

“…I was.”

“It wouldn’t happen to be Lord Tanner, would it? My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, but he’s approaching rather quickly – “

“Oh _bugger it,_ alright, go on, go on. No, _not that way!”_

 

:i:

 

By the third dance, Q seemed to have exhausted some of the prickly snark he had been dealing out with every second sentence _(“Don’t you find it rather ironic that they should celebrate politics with theme of façades?”_ –  _“Very Ironic. Almost as ironic as those who insist on inflicting their faces upon us all, for they are almost without exception the same souls whose faces might be most improved by the presence of a mask. Right, Captain?”_ ) and was willing to engage in a little more substantive conversation – such as every design flaw of the ship they were currently on.

In return for James’ attentiveness, Q deigned to be led. This was probably for the best, as Q tended to turn corners rather sharply, counting the beats with metronomic zeal instead of simply letting the crowd carry them from window to window.

He had a way of talking that was utterly riveting for how still he was, eyes clear and bright through the gap in his mask. The only quirk James had noticed so far was the way his fingers would twitch on James’ jacket, as if he was used to keeping them busy.

 “…an eggshell of a thing that could be shot out of the sky with one well aimed pebble,” he was saying, as they passed under the expansive glass dome of the ballroom. The sky was night now, wholly dark asides from the wash of the moon and the stars. The tessellated glass panels reflected the chandelier light back down to the dance-floor in a winking pattern as they moved, the crystals on the lights shivering ever so lightly with the swell of the orchestra.

“I suspect that’s why there are two dozen patrol fliers outside, and three warships on stand-by,” said James.

“Two dozen plus five, actually,” said Q, absently.

“Well half of those are French,” said James, “So effectively it’s barely a dozen.”

“I’ll have you know the French have some perfectly good ideas, when it comes to flying,” said Q, “Though not as good as mine of course.”

James manoeuvred them smoothly through a gap and momentarily letting go of Q’s hand to swipe them each a glass of champagne. He downed his in one, waited courteously for Q to swallow his in a long inhale (and shamelessly followed the drink down that long neck), before replacing them both on the tray of a passing waiter and merging them seamlessly back into the flow of dancers.

 “Thank you,” said Q, tracing the last of the alcohol on his lips with a pink tongue, there and gone. And James suddenly realised perhaps his friendliness was directly correlated to the number of drinks he had every time they passed a suitably laden tray.

“Now where was I?” he said; a scholar who had just had his afternoon tea disrupted. James smiled, unable to help himself.

“I believe it was somewhere between Calais and arrogance,” he said.

Q rolled his eyes.

“All I am saying is that this entire ship is a terrible idea. All this glass, it’s like replacing a building with cloth and hoping it would be just as stable. And don’t even mention the ceiling. Do you know how much weight each edge is holding up? One wrong tap, and we’d all be transformed into human sieves. Now that would be a bloody embarrassment. I cannot wait for this to be over.”

“But surely the company is more pleasant than the engineering?”

Q gave James a look between hooded eyes. And although his mask covered his brows, James could tell that one was raised acutely in derision.

“Are you always this shameless?”

James smirked.

“By no means,” he said, “Usually twice over.”

“Well if you go down with this architectural monstrosity, know that your esteemed company shall certainly _not_ be missed,” said Q.

“I think it’s rather impressive,” said James, nodding up at the ceiling. He was only half lying. It indeed was a rather magnificent ship – if all glitter and pomp, “You should be kinder to its designer.”

Q tilted his chin up, pointed nose in the air he somehow managed to look down at James, despite being shorter.

“I hardly think I’m obliged to do anything of the sort,” he said, loftily, “Considering it was _I_ who designed her in the first place.”

In James’ defence, he was only lost for words for half a bar; somewhere just to the start of a sweeping scale of notes. Then he snorted with laughter, and proceeded to spin Q twice without pause. He received a hard stomp on the toes in revenge.

 

:i:

 

“Captain, if you don’t take your hand _off_ my arse – ”

 

:i:

 

They were half way through a conversation concerning the pros and cons of James’ renovations on the Aston when the waltz wound itself down like a clockwork metronome, gently depositing them back where they had started near the main entrance.

“ – And I’m telling you,” said Q, animated in his insistence, “If you don’t shave at least half the weight off the wings themselves, it will always be working twice as hard when you bank at anything below a…”

He trailed off suddenly, eyes flickering to a point beyond James’ left ear. His expression brightened, eyes widening. He was already stepping back, but before James had a chance to turn, an unfamiliar voice interrupted:

“May I have the next dance?”

The man had dark hair and a very square jaw; broad shoulders beneath an Airmen uniform. He looked vaguely familiar, though James couldn’t place a name. Not one of the other Captains then.

“Rodriguez,” said Q, turning away from James, “You’re late.”

“I thought I wasn’t invited,” said the man, one hand at Q’s elbow. Proprietary.   

Q raised both eyebrows, but the disapproval in the expression was rather marred by the smile he couldn’t quite erase.

“You’re not,” said Q, deadpan.

“And who’s this?”

“Captain Bond of the _Skyfall_ ,” said Q, tilting his head, eyes flickering between the two of them warily. “Captain, this is Commodore Rodriguez. You are acquainted, I’m sure.”

Rodriguez gave James a thoroughly disdainful once-over. James returned it with a level gaze.

“I’m sure,” he said, glancing at Q.

“The _Skyfall_?” said Rodriguez. A deliberate pause. “…No, I don’t think so.”

Q looked as if he was holding back a sigh, lips pressed thin. He looked from James to Rodriquez, eyes flickering skywards in an universal gesture of frustration.

“Well I find that rather remarkable,” said Q, “Considering the slew of recent honours bestowed upon it.”

But although his words were biting, his the corners of his eyes were creased with affection; exasperated and fond – and James wondered what the Rodriquez had done to earn that kind of expression on such a face.

Rodriguez raised an eyebrow.

“You know what else is remarkable?” he said, hand going from Q’s elbow to the small of his back. James noticed Rodriquez wore several rings, heavy and gold – none of them bearing the royal crest.

“Giving five waltzes in a row,” said Rodriquez, tilting his head, “People _talk_ , you know.”

Q’s cheeks went a fetching shade of pink.

“I hardly think we are of any notice,” he said, tilting his chin up. James found himself smirking. Q gave him an extremely dirty look. “I was merely berating the good Captain on his abysmal treatment of an Aston. Practically blasphemous.”

“Never been a man of God,” said James.

Q tilted his head.

“You know,” he said, thoughtfully, “Neither have I.”

“God has nothing to do with it,” said Rodriguez, shifting so Q was forced to half turn, tucked in the curve of the Commodore’s arm, “Airmen don’t appreciate the work we do, Quentin.”

“We?” said James.

“Tiago was a flight architect,” Q explained, “Though now spends most of his time burning through ore, doing god knows what. Am I correct?”

“Anything for Queen and Country,” said Rodriguez, “Though, _mi cielo_ , I did not think you loved England so much as to force yourself on one of these ships.”

“Anything to keep _you_ from causing a political disaster,” Q shot back, dry as James’ favourite scotch.

“ _Five_ ,” repeated Silva, pointedly.

“ _Late_ ,” Q replied, smiling like a knife.

James was about to interrupt when he noticed someone approaching in his periphery – and he turned to intercept them. Rodriguez and Q turned with him – Q’s face falling rather comically when he saw who had arrive.

It was Lord Tanner, looking a little harried.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Tanner, nodding curtly at both Airmen before fixing a steely eye upon Q.

“Your presence is requested,” he said.

“Oh must I, really?” said Q, snagging a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and downing it in three long swallows. He had a long pale throat, and James found his gaze following the path of the champagne, imagining kissing the taste of it from the warmth of neatly buttoned collars.

When he looked up, it was to find Rodriguez, and a gaze as sharp as wing blades.

“She has been asking all evening,” said Tanner, who was known for his patience but it seemed that Q had worn his quota rather thin, “And I am not about to chase you around the dance floor for a sixth time.”

Rodriquez raised both his eyebrows at his companion, as if to say, _see? They_ are _counting._

James felt unbearably smug.

“That would be my fault,” he said, saving Q from answering, “Afraid I insisted.”

“Well that certainly comes as no surprise,” snapped Tanner, “No doubt Her Majesty expects you to be a nuisance in absolutely all things.”

A pause.

Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Q wince, very slightly.

“Her majesty?” said James, aiming for nonchalant.

Q shot him a look at pleaded for him to change the subject – eyes going rather large. A cat with ulterior motives, to be sure. Tanner, however, was clearly immune.

“Sometime before sunrise, please,” he said, rather testily, “Or she’ll have my head.”

“Oh, _alright_ ,” said Q. He shot Rodriguez a very meaningful look. “ _Please_ don’t talk to anyone important,” he said, “Not until I’m done with Mother.”

James’ eyebrows shot up.

“Mother -?”

“I could come with – “ Rodriguez made to follow.

Q rolled his eyes.

“No, then we’ll never be able to leave. I’ll go settle her doubts and then we can go home – the sooner the better.”

Q turned to James.

“You,” said Q.  

“Me,” said James, not trying very hard at all to keep the smile off his face. He could practically feel the annoyance radiating off Rodriguez like a furnace. It was very amusing.

Q turned his chin up, in that haughty way he had. He must think the gesture aloof, but really it was rather endearing.

“Do fix the double blading we spoke about, won’t you? Because if I see an Aston flying around with such a handicap, I shall shoot it down myself.”

James snorted.

“Is that meant to be a disincentive?”

Q’s eyes narrowed. Tanner made a small, pointed noise at the back of his throat and Q’s attention was diverted.

“Apologies Tanner,” said Q, stepping back. He made a vague gesture with his free hand, perhaps to dismiss, perhaps to placate – but before he could leave, James caught the hand in his own.

Then, very deliberately, bowed over it, pressing a kiss to Q’s knuckles.

Q’s skin was warm and dry; calloused but not with combat. His wrist smelled of lemon oil; but his fingers lead and warm metal. There was a smear of pencil lead near the dip of his index finger; a burn scar running along the length of his thumb.

James glanced up in time to see a high blush splash itself over Q’s cheeks; eyes genuinely surprised – like an open book, he was, - before Tanner was saying:

“Oh _for gods’ sake_ ,” and pulling Q bodily away.

James watched him go, following their figures through the glittering crowd. Q didn’t look back, once, but Mallory shot James a very dirty look as they made their way up the sweeping staircase.

“You do know he’s the Queen’s ward,” said Rodriguez – he had not moved. James didn’t bother giving him the courtesy of turning, merely snagged a drink from a passing waiter as his reply.

“I don’t think it’s any of my business,” said James, taking a long drink. “Besides, she and I get along quite well.

“Really.”

James shrugged. His gun was a comforting presence. And his knives. He shifted, very slightly, recentering his weight.

“Must be all the gold.”

“Must be,” said Rodriguez, face a mask. “But I dare say you and I will not ‘get along’ quite so well.”

James finished his drink.

“I suppose not,” he said. “Fortunately, Q doesn’t seem to care.”

“Quentin is _my charge_ ,” said Rodriguez. And there it was; an ugly undertone surfacing harsh and sour amidst the false civility. James did turn then. Rodriguez was slightly taller than him, but they were both broad shouldered. Both unmasked in a sea of politicians.

“Oh, my mistake,” said James, gesturing towards the balcony across the ballroom with his empty glass, “Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?”

A muscle twitched at Rodriguez’ jaw. James only smiled, bland and smooth like a freshly cleaned blade. Rodriguez took a step towards him.

“You’ll find your conquests elsewhere,” he said, accent heavier than it was a moment ago, “Or I’d be. Careful, if I were you.”

“And I you,” said James, “If I were as bold as to swan about as a Spaniard with all but the Queen’s signet on me. What was it – ah, that’s right. _People talk_.”

“You – “

“Hello gentlemen.”

It was Eve, appearing out of nowhere at James’ elbow like a particularly beautiful shadow. She gave Rodriguez glittering smile, and held out her hand – expectant. Rodriguez tore his murderous gaze away from James’ face to kiss her hand, as was custom.

“Commodore,” said Eve, “I’m afraid I must steal my Captain here away.” She slid one gloved hand into the dip of James’ elbow. Her grip was extremely strong, and James had to hide a wince.

“Not at all,” said Rodriguez, smiling flat and cold. He inclined his head to James, eyes never shifting.

“We must fly some time,” he said, straightening, “See that Aston I have been hearing so much about.”

“Do one better,” said James, rolling his neck in a languid motion, “I’ll race you. See that flying I’ve heard nothing about.”

“Captain Bond,” said Eve, sweetly digging the edge of her nails into James’ arm.

Rodriguez smiled with teeth.

“Sounds fun,” he said.

“I’m sure,” said Eve, and steered James away before he could have the last word. Once they were out of ear shot, Eve stomped on his foot with the back of one heel, making James wince.

“You are a menace,” she said.

“Mm _hm_ ,” said James, fingering Q’s ring in his pocket. And smiled to himself.

 

:i:

 

The next time James meets the Queen’s ward, Q is saving his life.

In James’ defence, no one saw the bomb coming.

:i:

 

> _Above St Katherine’s dockyards, London.  
>  3 months after the _ Traité de Pas de Calais _._

There were several main dockyards in London, built along the winding stretch that was Old Thames. The smaller ships docked further below, half swallowed by the gully of shadows that would sink low and black when the bigger ships came into land – their bellies too large to dock any lower than second or third tier. Warships were often small enough to dock on land; and her majesty’s airmen had dedicated docks away from the commercial hubbub of Old Thames.

St Katherines’ was visible from Whitehall and the Engineer’s Guild close by; and Q often watched the ships come in to land from the latticed windows. He was familiar with them of course, practically living and breathing airships.

So even without all the running and shouting, Q knew immediately that there was something very, very wrong.

“She’s been flying distress signals for the last five minutes at least,” he said, half shouting and pushing his way past the crowd out on the main promenade. “Why the _hell_ is she still doing in the air?”

Two life-boats had just landed, and Q could see the flash of uniform between the black coats of the onlookers. He elbowed his way past, not giving a damn about who got bruised. There were a few indignant noises. It probably didn’t help that Q was in his work clothes; face smeared dirty and coat stained.

“Get out of my way,” he said, finally bursting through the crowd.

“That’s a warship, one of the old ones, isn’t it?” he asked the first crewmember within earshot, “what’s going on? Why isn’t she coming in to land?”

The woman was hoisting a heavy package the size of her torso onto her shoulder by the straps whilst the rest of the small crew was frantically unloading the life boats. She didn’t bother turning fully to answer.

“Explosive,” she said, shortly, “Sensitive cargo. Captains’ orders to deliver.”

Q’s stomach dropped, but he kept his face calm.

There was a tug at Q’s sleeve and he turned to find one of his apprentices at his side, face red and looking out of breath.

“It’s the Skyfall, sir,” said the boy, clutching at a stitch at his side, “I was – “ he wheezed a little, “- orders for her not to land.”

“Captain Bond has no intention to land,” snapped the woman, who was pulling the last of the packages off the lifeboats, “He intends to fly her back out above sea and detonate there so no civilians will be harmed – _fuck_ ,” she swore as something heavy made a crunching sound in one of the trunks.

“What,” said Q, shouting to make himself heard, “Die and waste one of the operational warships? I don’t bloody think so. Tell him to land in one of the more remot-“

But the apprentices interrupted.

“Orders not to land,” he said, cringing when Q glared at him, “Sir,” he added, “There’s been orders from security and the Queen herself, said it was too much of a risk – “

“And _why hasn’t anyone been dispatched,_ for heaven’s sake? One of my team?” said Q, waving a hand in frustration.

“They said they didn’t want anyone getting killed unnecessarily, they said – ”

Something in Q’s chest did a slow, painful roll.

_Captain Bond._

He hadn’t seen the man since their first meeting in that ballroom, but it was a meeting that Q thought of often. He clenched and unclenched his right hand, looking from faces of the expectant crowd, who was being slowly forced back from the edges of the promenade, to the light-weight fliers docked close by.

There would only be one reason why a Captain was evacuating his crew and risking his own life and that of his ship. The explosive must be completely untested. And he was currently circling his ship in the hopes that someone would respond to the distress signal.

Except no one would. No one would because an English ship blasted to smithereens above the carcass of Southbank would be the perfect excuse to kick start the war effort, and fill the Airmen and military flush with taxes.

“Fuck this,” said Q, and vaulted over the railing.

From behind him, he heard the boy call out in shock (“ _Sir!_ ”), someone swearing – but the emergency flier was empty, and Q unceremoniously kicked the seat back to get at the manual controls. He designed these things; he could build one in his sleep, let alone hi-jack one. He very deliberately concentrated on his hands, and not on the yawn of sky beneath the edge of the wings.

_Steady now._

The sound of shouting. But it was suddenly lost in the purring rush of the engine starting. Q felt like he had been pulled into a vacuum, heart his throat. He stared hard a the controls and upwards (upwards, never downwards) and pulled the flier into a sharp ascent that left his stomach behind in a lurch of nausea.

_Steady now._

His entire body felt cold, hands operating on automatic as he  banked away from the top tier and into the sky, the wind scratching harsh at his face as he made a direct line towards The Skyfall, who was still circling at the same altitude. Within seconds, Q couldn’t feel his hands anymore but he forced his fingers to curl, feel wide to keep his balance.

The short flight seemed to take an age – but after perhaps only mere minutes he was above the deck of the Skyfall. Q didn’t even pretend to aim for one of the landing pads, pulling sharpling on the controls to descend. The resulting jarring crash echoed all the way from the docking mechanism through the wings and into his knees, throwing Q completely off as the metal edge of the left wing brought sparks flying as it scratched against the metal sides of the Skyfall, metal screeching as he was thrown to the right and off the flier.

He landed with a painful thud on his right shoulder, the breath momentarily going out of him. But the hum of the big ship was already better; and Q hastily got to his feet, adrenaline still hammering loud in his ears.

He could see the silhouette of two figures in the control room, through the glass porthole of the doors, and he stumbled a few steps before making a run for it. He wrenched open the door and was greeted by the sight of Captain James Bond attempting to single-handedly fly an entire airship, a cadet at his side.

The Captain was shouting at the cadet, who looked younger than Q and was giving back as good as he got.

“ – when I give a order you _bloody well obey it_ ,” James was roaring, “And I’m telling you to get off this fucking ship.”

“Well that isn’t gonna fucking happen!” the cadet yelled right back, deftly pulling on the starboard controls to keep Skyfall steady (Q was impressed; the shouting seemed very involved).

“For god’s sake Unwin!”

The cadet tilted his chin up, defiant. They looked oddly similar in their profiles for a moment, both silhouettes hard and unwilling to back down. 

“Will you _shut up_ and go defuse that bomb?” said the cadet.

James snorted.

“What, and let her nose dive into Whitehall?”

“Just _let me_ – “

“I have been flying for longer than you’ve been alive, the only thing you’re going to contribute to is the body count,” said James viciously.

The cadet snorted.

“Too bad, ‘bruv,” he said, and although his voice shook with the floor of the ship, his hands were steady above the control panel, “’Cus you need someone to keep her afloat and there ain’t nobody else.”

Q coughed loudly.

It was a testament to both Airmen that then didn’t falter in their flight, but there was suddenly two pistols pointed at Q’s face.

“Were you two planning to finish this spat before or after detonation?” he asked.

“ _Q?_ ” said James, incredulous.

“ _Bomb?_ ” Q replied.

James jerked his head at the cadet. “Go. Show him where.  I’ll keep her up.”

The cadet shot one last uncertain look between his captain and the controls before nodding and running out of the control room, Q close on his heels. They ran across the deck, a little unsteady, and Q followed the cadet down a flight of stairs into a standard storage cabin.

“We didn’t know what it was,” said the cadet, pulling open the door, “It came with the rest of the Spanish stock and we thought it was bars, originally, until we realised that – “ he pointed with the toe of one boot at the open trunk on the floor, “was fused to that and the whole thing was – James thought it’d not be safe and told us all the bugger off until one of you arrive to defuse it.”

Q was already bent over the device, furiously rubbing his hands to get the warmth back so he could move his fingers properly.

“And he’s worried that it would be triggered by the descent,” said Q, examining a tiny glass bauble attached discretely to the side of the contraption. The liquid in it was faintly green.

“Yeah,” said the cadet. “Didn’t want to explode over the town or nu’thin,” he said.

Q took a deep breath, then let it out. Then he did it again; until his hands were calm again. The world seemed a lot more vivid; sharper; the air cold at the edges of his lungs.

“And you stayed,” said Q, pulling aside one of the wires delicately.

“He can’t fucking fly this by himself,” the cadet protested in a rush of breath.

“Seems like he is doing just fine right now,” said Q, examining the ugly underbelly of the bomb.

_Steady now. Steady does it._

The cadet hunkered down next to him, balanced on the balls of his feet. His voice was a little mutinous.

“Was gonna keep her up while he looked at this,” he said, “You need two people for that.”

Q didn’t look up, concentrating as he was on the task at hand. Time wound tighter and tighter, a noose around their necks.

“Pass me the grade 8 pins please,” he said, and was only mildly surprised when the correct implements were placed in his hand.

“Alright,” said Q, “I’m going to need you to wind this, through that – and hold it extremely still while I dismantle this part.”

Wordlessly, the cadet did as he was told.

“Now, if you move, my hand will be blown off,” said Q, wetting his lips, “But I can promise you that you will also die shortly after.”

“I ain’t scared,” said the cadet, and thank god for his small hands, “And I ain’t moving.”

They got to work.

 

 

Time was a strange thing. Elastic and fluid, it sometimes stretched taught – like heartstrings wound too tightly. They were sentences spoken in a rush, as if spoken by someone who desperately wanted to say all they could before an unexpected full-stop.

Q left his lungs empty and waited until his heartbeat was calm and still before twisting hard with a pair of sharp pliers, and lifting the core out of the bomb in one swift movement.

When nothing happened, he let out a choked noise of relief – and would have fallen over when the ship tilted if the cadet hadn’t been quick to brace them against the bolted down trunk, face split in a wide grin and slightly hysterical laughter.

 

:i:

 

In the end, it took both James and his cadet to fly _The Skyfall_ back down to St Katherine’s.

Unfortunately for Q, being relieved of the prospect of instant death meant that his earlier calm over being _in the middle of the fucking sky_ also dissipated. The world was an interesting, over-sharp tunnel in his vision, and he pressed his back hard against the wall of the control room, one hand gripping the railing near his head, the other gripping his own throat in a gesture of nervous habit.

The Skyfall made a steady, unbroken drop and Q let out a moan of horror and nausea. He thought he could feel ever shudder of the ship beneath his fingers. They were going to die from this god-awful contraption, instead of a bomb. At least the bomb would be a quick death. God knows what would happen now. The fall would be unthinkable.

“Nearly there,” said James, “Q? Keep talking.”

“Fuck you,” said Q, “I just saved your life. Both your lives.”

“Yes,” said James soothingly, turning to him, “Yes you did. And – “

“And it would be disgusting if you killed me whilst flying this thing,” said Q.

The cadet made a noise like badly muffled laughter. Q forced one of his eyes open to glare at him.

“Q. You’re going to – “

“Shut up,” said Q, “Shut up. _Please_ concentrate on what you are doing.”

 There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the sound of their breathing and the ship dropping and banking in a sharp descent. Surely it would be over soon. Surely. Q shivered against the wall, trying to pull in the next breath and think about nothing at all. He dug in his nails at his neck, concentrating on the pin-points of pain made by his nails.

“Q,” said James, sharply, “Breathe.”

“I _am_ breathing,” Q said – or tried to say. Perhaps he said nothing at all, but the next thing he knew he was being jerked into consciousness by someone shouting.

“Hey, _hey,_ ” called the cadet, “Okay you gotta breathe with me alright?”

“Keep him talking,” said James, bending far over the controls to pull at something near the windows. Even at the brink of passing out, Q could appreciate the view.

“Uh,” said the cadet, “So Q, huh? Is that a nickname?”

“Quartermaster,” said Q, every syllable an effort.

“Huh,” said the cadet, “That’s cool. You’re kinda young though, aren’t you?”

Q barked out a laugh.

“Look who’s – whos’ talking.”

“I’m surrounding by infants,” said James, “That is true.”

“You fucking concentrate on getting us to the ground and shut up,” said Q, rambling a little now, “And It’s your fault for letting this child onto your ship. Too young to die.”

“I _told_ him to evac,” said James peevishly.

“Like I’m gonna do that!”

“If you think you’re going get back onto this ship after we land,” said James, voice rising again, “You bloody think again.”

“Fine _,”_ the cadet shouted back, “ _Fine!_ Next time I’ll just abandon you like the rest ‘ov them, see how you like that!”

“They didn’t’ abandon – they _obeyed orders_ , we had sensitive cargo as you well know – “

“Kick me off if you want, I’m not gonna apologise for staying behind.”

“I think you need people like him on your ship,” said Q, diplomatically. He had a headache.

“No. I _need_ people I can _trust!_ ” shouted James.

 _The Skyfall_ fell sharply in descent – and Q lost track of everything until there was an answering lurch upwards, and then a great grinding sound as the landing gears engaged. He waited for the tell-tale sideways rocking motion that would indicate that the landing strip had attached to the belly of the ship.

But none came.

“What the fuck,” said the cadet, “Why won’t they let us land?”

And Q felt like, for the second time that day, someone had turned his veins to ice.

“Well if they won’t I’m going to dock her anyway, right next to Vauxhall,” said James, voice very hard.

“They’re saying – we can’t fucking turn back what – “

Q banged his hand against the railing. Then he forced himself to his unsteady feet, pulling on the wall.

“Q!”

But Q was already at the door, pushing it open into the roaring sound that was the wind at low altitude. There was a flier painted with her majesty’s colours, hovering close to the helm. Q staggered towards it – the vast expanse of sky and the city sprawl below making the world tilt on its axis.

“No permission to dock!” said the guard on the flier – but he visibly did a double take at the sight of Q, out of uniform and looking possibly manic about the eyes. Q managed to get to the railings and clutched them. The city looked so far away, yet so close. There was too much space in between. He tried not to think about the yawning fall. 

“Let her land!” he shouted.

“But – “

“The explosive has been neutralised!”

“But we – “

Q had had enough.

“ _LET HER LAND OR I SWEAR TO GOD I WILL JUMP OFF RIGHT NOW AND YOU CAN EXPLAIN TO THE QUEEN WHY HER WARD IS A SPLATTER OUTSIDE WHITEHALL.”_

A pause.

“...Permission to take you down first, my lor - ?”

“Permission _not fucking granted!”_ screamed Q, and dry retched over the railing. He couldn't feel his own hands on the railing, but felt the tilt of the deck and the stomach-lurching slip of his heel as he -

And suddenly there was a warm hand at the back of his neck, around his waist, pulling him back from the edge of the ship and back wards the middle of the deck.

“Hey. _Hey._ Breathe,” said James, “Come on, you'll be alright. Q? Come back in, you’ll slide off the edge here. And that would be a pity after everything.”

“Oh my god,” said Q, burying his face James’ shoulder and squeezing his eyes shut, “Is that child flying this ship _by himself right now?!”_

 

 

They landed at St Katherine’s without further fanfare.

 

As soon as the landing docks engaged, there was a stampede of sound, and Q found himself pulled out of his crouch near his corner of floor and wall. Someone was shouting directly into his face. It took him longer than usual to realise who it was.

“ – nearly gave me a _heart attack,”_ Lord Tanner was saying, face red and beside himself, “You’ve taken ten years off my life, ten years. What the hell were you thinking, I thought you hated flying! You know what would have happened if you had died? _You know who else would have died?_ Me! Strung and quartered, I let you out of my sight for three seconds – “

“I do hate flying,” Q agreed, as he let himself be dragged off _The Skyfall_ and back on blissful earth. He wanted to kiss the pavement. “It’s barely tolerable with a ship as big as those state affairs. But.”

Someone wrapped a heavy coat around Q’s shoulders.

“We’re going to the hospital,” said Tanner, “You’re shaking like a tube flier down on the eleventh, Christ, _never_ do that again – “

Q was being pushed through the crowd, Tanner’s hands firmly around his arms, marching him past a blur of faces. Q attempted to dig his heels in, to turn around. He twisted in Tanner’s grip, and caught a glimpse of James’ face through the crowd.

 

:i:

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe guess who the cadet is!! :D This AU basically also runs parallel to Kingsman canon, where instead of training with the marines, Eggsy was training to join the Airmen. I think I will write a separate fic detailing this event and beyond from more of an Eggsy centric focus because this is the catalyst for him later dropping out of the marines/Airmen training! :D 
> 
> Please let me know what you thinkkkk asdlkfja I hope the fandom is a bit more alive now that spectre is around the corner? <3 <3 Thank you for reading!


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